Not in Blood, but in Bond
by Mrs.Arionasparrow
Summary: A case in Derbyshire catches Holmes' attention, and good ol' Watson follows him into danger
1. Chapter 1

It was a rainy Wednesday when we were called upon for a case. The morning paper was in my hands and I had no sooner had read the opening lines- "MURDER IN DERBYSHIRE! Lord James Alcott, a man of some considerable wealth, had been accused of and arrested for the murder of his wife." when Mrs. Hudson had come scurrying in with his card.

"He says it's very urgent," she panted, holding it out.

"It always is," said Holmes.

"And he didn't know whom to turn to,"

"They never do," remarked I, and Holmes half-smirked, irking our Landlady.

"And he's not sure what to do!"

"They never are," Holmes and I said in complete concert. Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands and went to fetch Lord Ackley, which whose was the name on the card, "And some tea, if you please!" Holmes called out. I buried my nose back in my paper, for I did not, at the time, know the lord was connected to the murder. As two pairs of feet ascended the steps, a name in the paper caught my eye.

"Holmes!" he turned his hawk-like nose towards me, "Lord Ackley was the name on the card, and here it says 'the Lord Ackley's daughter, Mary Alcott, was murdered'." Holmes' head turned, he looked determined, like a falcon deciding on his next prey. The door then came open, and Mrs. Hudson, who still looked unamused, announced;

"Lord Ackley," before stepping back out the door, doubtless to return with the tea that Holmes had ordered.

"Mr. Holmes, I apologize for interrupting your morning, but it is very urgent." Holmes and I shared a look, "My son-in-law's life is in danger! He is not guilty!"

"Give me the evidence," the detective sighed, "I cannot build a house of truth without the bricks of fact." Holmes flopped into his chair and let his eyes drift shut. Lord Ackley glanced at me in hesitation, "This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, you may speak freely in front of him as in front of me." Mrs.

Hudson brought in the tea, and we sat in silence as Ackley gathered his thoughts.

Finally, he started to speak: "Lord Alcott, I know, is wholly innocent of this crime. But the police refused to even listen to his story after their house keeper told the inspector." Holmes interrupted here,

"Which inspector?"

"An old friend of the family; Lestrade."

"Ha!" was the reply. Lord Ackley slanted a look at Holmes.

"Please continue," I prompted, and he did.

"Lestrade thinks there can be no other possibility, but I know that he loved Mary more than life itself." The man was on his feet and started pacing from the mantel to the window, fidgeting with the chain of his pocket watch.

"And what story did he give to the, hehe, inspector?"

"James was downstairs, my son-in-law has the horrible vice of laziness, and was asleep on the daybed. He awoke to horrible screams, Mary's, and flew upstairs, only to see a black cloak slip out of the window." Holmes interrupted him again.

"What floor is this window?"

"The second, but there's a tree who's branches rest next to the sill." Holmes nodded. "Lestrade hints upon the importance that there were no footprints at the scene, but it had been raining, so that proves little."

"Were there any footprints inside?"

"Well, no, not that I know of." Lord Ackley fell back into his chair and fiddled with his tea, but never drank a drop.

"Hmmm," Holmes opened his eyes for the first time, and began to scrutinize the man in front of him. "We'll take the case!" he cried, and leapt from the chair as he only does when something of great interest has crossed his path.


	2. Chapter 2

Ok, I'm not an expert on trains in the 1800's, but today it can take 1 hour 45 minutes to get from London to Derbyshire on the fastest trains, so I'm thinking 3 ½ -4 hours back then. Also, if I mention a station that didn't exist then, I apologize.

P.S. I'm going from the books AND Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes

Holmes dashed around our apartments, gathering items he deemed necessary for the errand. Lord Ackley had left for his home in Hertforshire soon after he gave us his account, or rather the account of his son-in-law, of the events the surrounded Lady Mary's death, with our assurance that we would attend to the matter directly.

"Do you think Lord Alcott killed his wife?"

"My dear Watson," Holmes sighed, "How many time must I state this: data, data, data? There's no use in making conjectures without all evidence in front of me." As Holmes and I left, bags in hand, I gave a thought to Mrs. Hudson's reaction to seeing the shambles her taller tenant had left the room in. In fact, just as we said our goodbyes to the Landlady and left the house, I fancy I heard a cry of 'Mr. Holmes!' from the second floor. From the corner of my eye, I just barely perceived a smirk upon his face as we stepped up into the cab.

In the end, we had to bolt for the moving train; the hansom we'd ordered, apparently, was driven by an Italian. Not only did he never pause for other carriages, but the driver seemed to forget completely where King's Cross was located. That is, to say, he went the wrong way and wholly refused to listen to our directions or permit us to leave his carriage.

It was an experience that even Holmes is loath to repeat.

Once we were well secured in a car of our own, I set about propping up my leg, for it had been jolted when we made the final mad leap for the train, and leaned back with a pencil and my notebook, ready to compose the story of our last mystery. I sat there for some time; the last case had been quite entangled and I wasn't quite sure where to start. When the client arrived? When we first grasped the edges of the case in the evening paper?

"You,"

"Are not about to tinge an otherwise proper series of lectures focused on the facts with romance?" I interrupted him, sprawling the first words across the page, "I am, actually." Holmes gave me an almost incredulous look before turning back to his paper. Feeling rather smug myself, I continued to write out the particulars of our last case.

"What do you think, Watson," Holmes mused, "could cause marital murder?"

"Adultery," I paused, thinking, "money, hatred, fear?"

"Yes, yes, but why murder? Why not divorce?"

"There's always a fear of scandal, perhaps of retribution on the family's part." Holmes shook his head, not satisfied with my answer.

"No, no, a spouse is always the first suspect, and in murder there is always scandal. Why commit such crimes when you know YOU shall be, at least for a time, ridiculed by the family, police, and public?" I put aside my pen and book, then sat back.

"But they're not always caught, not right away. Do you recall the singular account of 'The Eligible Bachelor'?" Holmes scoffed.

"I do indeed," a dark look passed his sharp eyes, "A hard man St. Simon was, and for Lady Helena to have survived! It was one of our more grotesque cases."

"Certainly, he had one wife killed, and got sympathy, one declared insane, and received nothing but sympathy, and one disappeared, though that wasn't of his doing,"

"And got sympathy." Holmes finished, catching my pattern, "I am glad Lady Hatty wasn't truly married to that man, though I am loath to call him so."

"Quite. She may have, one day, become one of his victims." After a moment of silence, I deemed my interrogation over, though, in truth, I enjoy that he values my opinion and wrote for the remaining three hours. I had sincerely hoped that this case wouldn't be as grotesque as the 'Bachelor'.

My hopes were never answered.


	3. Chapter 3

In the books/tv shoes, Watson rarely speaks of his injuries, but I deem it necessary for him to have a really bad week….Sorry John, the plot bunny made me do it….

I also don't know/care where in Derbyshire Chatsworth House is located, it just is.

Nor is there a tree near the 2nd floor window…but there could have been

Traveling long distances by train was arduous for me. The train shook and jumped far to much for my, and my leg's, liking, and I was glad it was over. We disembarked at Hope Station, where we were surprised by Lestrade himself sitting in a bounder, waiting for us.

"Seems I've got the jump on you this time, Mr. Holmes!" he crowed from the dog-cart, "In truth, I don't see a reason for you to have even come

out. The case is closed, and the noose is tightening around Lord Alcott's neck! I advise you to quit the case."

"Ah, but Lestrade," Holmes smirked while he climbed into the cart, "I am not here on the request of Scotland Yard, but on that of Lord Ackley. So, it is wholly impossible to disengage myself from this case without his consent." The inspector gave Holmes a rather incredulous look as I hefted myself onto the bounder and seated myself next to him.

"How did the wife die?" I asked, removing my pocket notebook and twisting to face Lestrade, which caused my leg to spasm.

"Watson?"

"I'm fine, Holmes," but he could see that I was not. That is one of the advantages (or disadvantages, depending on the situation) of having such an uncannily astute friend.

"She was shot," Lestrade continued, heedless of my pain, "in the back of the head twice yesterday morning. The bullet was a .45, but we have yet to find a .45 among Lord Alcott's guns." Holmes seemed to not be paying attention to Lestrade as he stared out at Derbyshire.

"Well, doesn't that lend credence to the lord's claims?"

"Doctor," Lestrade sat up straighter, "I suspect that he disposed of it in one of the three lakes on the property."

"Inspector," Holmes mused, "was there any sign that Alcott went out after his wife's death? Did anyone see him depart?" Lestrade paused,

suddenly uncertain of his previous assumptions.

"The servants are all in agreement that their employer hadn't left the house since the day before." he replied reluctantly, then seemed to rally, "But that doesn't mean they all speak the truth!"

"No, it does not." Holmes agreed.

When the dogcart pulled in front of Chatsworth House, where Lord Alcott resided, I was impressed by the mansion, but was not granted much time to admire it. Holmes and Lestrade leapt out of the bounder while I was more ginger with my movements.

"I would like to be shown to where the Lady was found."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes." After ringing the bell, we were ushered in by a very distressed looking butler.

"I's telling' ya, sir!" he exclaimed.

"I do not wish to hear it, Jenkins," Lestrade snapped.

"I presume this is one of the domestics that insist upon Alcott's innocence?"

"Lord Alcott," the steward corrected, "if i' be all th' same ta ya, sir. An' indee' I be believin' in 'em"

"Very good, Jenkins," said Holmes, "do be a good man and show us up to the site of the unfortunate hap?" the man nodded and, after a valet took out hats and coats, we ascended the stairs. My leg was on fire, but I didn't want to distract Holmes from any vital piece of evidence. Luck, it seemed, was on my side, for the location of the scene was not far from the apex of the stairwell.

Once inside, I noted the window that was ajar, and a smear of blood, presumably that of the Lady's was on the stairs. Holmes dropped to the floor, crawling about with his magnifying glass in hand, no longer human, but merely a deducing mechanism. Lestrade tossed me an amused look, but I was not in a mood to be amused as I limped over to a near by chair.

"Don't!" Holmes dashed over and waved me away. Quite crossed with how the day was proceeding, I forwent gathering notes on the case and seated myself in a chair in the corridor to keep out of the way. And, yes, I admit, to sulk.

It was two hours before Holmes had reappeared, his petticoat a little dusty,

probably from crawling under a desk. He looked quite pleased with himself, which only served to darken my mood farther. We locked eyes, and Holmes seemed to realize I hadn't been in the room while he searched, and then why I hadn't been present.

"Jenkins!" the butler had been lurking just around the corner, I'd seen his coattails fluttering now and then "the good doctor and I will be staying here," Jenkins opened his mouth to protest, but Holmes plowed on, "I believe we would both elect to have a room on the first floor, and the doctor would graciously accept a hot bath." the man seemed to know he couldn't beat Holmes, only five people ever had, and I realized fighting Sherlock Holmes a vain endeavor. One valet, to my embarrassment, was directed to help me descend the steps and lead me to my chambers, where the bath was already being drawn.

"I'll call upon you in two hours, Watson," I heard from behind, then a door shutting. Once my bath was filled, and the servants had left, I disrobed, slid into the deliciously warm water, and bent myself over my flawed leg, crying


	4. Chapter 4

Once I had managed to pull myself from my teary stupor, I realized the water had grown quite cool and finished washing quickly. I had no idea of the amount of time that had passed, so I dressed forthwith, expecting Holmes to descend upon me whilst I was struggling with the buttons of my trousers. I was tired, I realized. Too tired to bide my time by sitting in a chair waiting for Holmes to make his appearance, so I let myself sink into the yielding mattress of the grand four poster-bed before coasting into sleep.

I cannot tell you how much time had passed, but my head was much clearer and my discomfort was at a manageable level when I awoke. As I fought to open my eyes(Which was quite an arduous battle, I assure you), a smell assaulted another sense; the smell of pipe tobacco.

Holmes' pipe tobacco.

"Holmes?"

"About time, old boy," I heard something, his pipe perhaps, being placed on the bureau, and the scrape of a chair on the floorboards, "what were you dreaming about?" I was able to pry one eye open to look at my approaching friend in the darkened room.

"What?" was the only response I was able to make. Holmes looked down his long nose at me, scrutinizing my expression.

"You've been restless for the past two hours! Something, some memory, must have stirred that reaction." I shook my head.

"I remember nothing of a dream, Holmes." This answer was not satisfactory to him, judging by the narrowing of his eyes, but he abandoned the line of questioning. "What evidence have you found now to discredit Lestrade?"

"Watson!" he exclaimed; face innocently blank, but eyes glowing in amusement, "I would never do that to our dear friend and un-, excuse me,-invaluable inspector!" I sat up, chuckling. When he was in these moods, criminals were sure to be revealed, and Lestrade to be humiliated.

"If that is true what of 'The Case of the Norwood Builder'?" Holmes made to make a response, but I continued my teasing whilst examining his dirt covered waistcoat and bits of bark on his cuffs, "Or 'The Adventure of the Second Stain', 'The Disappearance of Lady Carfax', 'The-'"

"All right, All right!" he cried, "Your deductive powers have improved, my good man! There is some pleasure in tormenting the man, but that is not my what spurs my spirit now."

"Then, what scent have you caught, old boy?" Holmes leapt to his feet, and, after reclaiming his pipe, began pacing in front of the well lit fire place. Which wasn't so before I had succumbed to sleep.

"I have found a small campsite near the edge of the property, where three men and a child, whom I believe to be a boy, have stayed for the past three days." Holmes left his station by the fire to gain a seat at the writing table, "I believe they were, are, assassins."

"Assassins?" I exclaimed, throwing back the covers, "Why the Devil do you think that?" He ignored me as he scribbled out a note.

"I also believe they will be back tonight."

"For what, Holmes? They've done their job, haven't they?" Holmes opened my door, and reached the missive out to someone.

"Lestrade shouldn't have gotten far," said he, "Give this to him, a do not let him leave on the train!" he then wheeled around to face me, but his eyes were focused on some plain beyond my room. "If only he'd stayed but a half hour longer," Holmes lamented, "How is your leg, Watson?"

"Better. Holmes, what's going on?" he crossed the room in three strides, pipe clenched in his teeth.

"If I didn't have need of you, I'd leave you to your rest."

"Nonsense, Holmes, I'm coming with you!"

"You should have rested earlier,"

"You're starting to sound like me,"

"Now, rise, my friend, and take your dinner; for it is half-past seven, and we shall be awake for the rest of the night." I was too confused by his actions to make a response as he swirled out of the room, and a maid stepped in.

"Your dinner," she murmured, then left. As I ate the chicken and broth, I realized Holmes meant for us to sit out and keep vigil on the campsite of suspected, (and in Holmes' mind, confirmed) assassins.

I'd better procure some number of warm bed linens before nightfall.


	5. Chapter 5

I firmly believe stand in the hypothesis that Holmes endangers his health to gauge my reactions. For example: whilst I sat under a tree not four metres from the assassin camp, covered with several of the blankets that I'd obtained from the butler, waiting for their return, Holmes dropped a coverlet upon my head, leaving him with one thin, black quilt across his shoulders. We had already been in the crisp night air, laying in wait not five meters away from the assassins' camps, and as such I was too fearful that they lay somewhere out of sight watching us observing the camp to even reprimand his reckless actions.

It was not long after that, perhaps only five or ten minutes, when I discerned the sound of feet in the underbrush. Quiet, practiced feet. Holmes shifted on the branch above me, perhaps to hide himself better, as I sank beneath the covers, losing full view of the camp.

"We need to go back," it was the voice of a youth, and though I couldn't see the entire group, I was sure Holmes was correct in that the younger of the mercenaries was a boy.

"We can't, ya twat! Sherlock Holmes is been by!" the second voice was deeper, that of a man.

"Well, what's that got to do with anything?"

"Don't you know nothing'? The man's magic! He'll know ya're 'round before ya know ya're goin' ta be there!"

"Indeed, gentlemen."

"Holmes!" in a move far more idiotic than I'd ever thought him capable of making, he leapt from the branch of the tree, straight into the camp of, I'll say again, assassins.

"Worry not, Watson!" he called back to me, "We're just going to have a bit of a chat." I hoisted myself from under the tree to join Holmes in the open. Again, my colleague was correct, as I observed three men and a single boy, all whom looked rather shocked at our appearance. One man who, in my regard, looked rather like a gorilla, pulled a revolver from his boot and leveled it on Holmes. My hand flashed to my own pistol instinctively, then I took aim at his heart.

"Lower your gun, sir!"

"Easy, Watson," said Holmes, patting my elbow as if a duel hadn't just been a hair's breadth from occurring, "We'll just be having a little talk, isn't that so, boys?" The gorilla and I lowered, but did not pocket, our guns. "So," Holmes advanced a pace, blocking my view and forcing me to move with him, "would you be so kind as to inform me of your employer's name?"

"What's i' to ya?" snarled a blond man from behind his gun wielding comrade.

"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was a friend to the woman you slew," Holmes said drolly, "That man, how ever incompetent forensically he may be, is as tenacious as a lobster, and I assure you that he wishes to retaliate for the death of Lady Mary." Though I had heard Holmes praise and abuse the inspector in turn for years, I had yet to be present in a case where my friend gifted a completely true complement to Lestrade such as this. "You'd fare much better with the Bobby if you have something to give. Like the name of the mastermind."

Suddenly the gorilla man raised his gun again. I reacted purely on adrenalin, leveling and shooting the revolver before my brain understood what I was doing. My military training assured a kill shot, and blood was strewn from his chest as he struck the ground like a heavy bookend. "Does anyone else care to attempt to duel my friend?"

"No," was their only response.

"Very good!" cried Holmes, "Now, who is the executive of this despicable crime?" His eyes were hard and sharp, looking for any sign of trickery on their parts. The three remaining men stood as silent as their felled fourth member until, that is, I leveled my gun on the oldest man of the group. From the corner of my eye, I perceived a rather shocked expression at my current violence in his, but it never registered on his face.

"We don't know!" the youngest bemoaned, "he hired us by note, and paid half in one go!"

"Bill!" was the elder's reproach. "You'll get us killed!"

"Or he'll," the youth exclaimed, pointing at my person, "shoot us! At least in court we might stand a chance!"

"Ya fool!" cried the blond, "The court will 'ang us!"

"How were you to obtain the other half?" Holmes interjected, and again the group was silent for a time.

"We're to meet him at Allestree Park," said the eldest.

"At what time?"

"Midnight," Holmes then smirked, and it struck me what he was thinking.

"Perfect, my good men! We shall be present for the exchange."


	6. Chapter 6

The Nine Unknown is a secret group charged with protecting harmful info

...

The temperature had fallen below zero degrees Celsius when, for the second time in as many days, I found myself tucked under a tree, covered in blankets, waiting for some dangerous deuce to appear. Holmes, instead of stationing himself in a tree, sat with a single blanket wrapped around him alongside me. "You reacted so viciously at the camp," there had been a smug smile on his face as he said that earlier in the day, "and I most certainly do not desire you to shoot the villain before I am done with him!"

When a clock tower in the distance tolled its bells for midnight, a hansom pulled into the park. Holmes shifted forward as Jacobs, the oldest of the group, twitched nervously when the cab stopped in front of the assembled men. "Did you get the item?" The man didn't exit the cab, but allowed the shadows disguise his facial features.

"No sir," Jacobs shuffled backwards as the door of the hansom sprung open.

"You fool!" the voice was gravelly, as if his throat had been injured at some point, or perhaps he was concealing his true voice. I glanced to Holmes, whose eyes were trained on the carriage instead of the exchange. "If I or my employer is found out, your families will be the ones to pay!"

"Please, understand," the elder man pleaded, "the husband saw Bill leave, we couldn't stay!" The malefactor seized Jacobs by his stiff collar, and pulled him forward.

"We expected a satisfactory performance for our money," the voice was no longer gravelly, but smooth, proving it had been a disguise, "but, instead we receive a very mediocre one!"

"We're no' really assassins!" exclaimed the third, Joel.

"If," the criminal hissed, "the box isn't in our possession by tomorrow, you will see what crossing The Unknown Nine gets you." The man got back in and directed the driver to leave. As the carriage maneuvered back around, Holmes made his move, secreting himself onto the back of the hansom, as he'd done a score of times, and motioned to me to follow. Holmes, forgive me for saying this old boy, is a bit scrawny, where I am a good deal heavier. When I leaped after my deductive friend, I was not, in the least, sure that adding my weight to the back wouldn't alert the wretch inside to our presence, but the back axle was very stable and did not budge.

Holmes put a digit to his lips, as if he would need to tell me silence was of the up most importance. "Back to Burly Drive," had come the voice, and the cart picked up speed. The path was bumpy, which jolted my leg. I fortified myself against the pain and, an instant later, felt Holmes' hand against my shoulder. Before I could make my thanks, Holmes slid from the axle gracefully to the cobbled street. I attempted the same maneuver, but botched the landing, and ended up planted firmly on my rear.

"Watson?"

"I'm fine, Holmes, I just couldn't keep my feet." From behind us, I discerned a carriage coming up the lane.

"Ah!" my companion exclaimed, "That will be Lestrade!"

"Holmes!" I cried, "How could you have known we'd be deposited on this lane?"

"Quite simple, my dear friend!" a dogcart rounded the curb, and I could see the inspector's silhouette in the driver's seat, "Our shadowed felon, based on the meeting point in the park, had only one place to go, and the direction he entered from only confirmed that; Burly Lane. Now, their final destination, of course, was just ascertained." I have, many times, been struck by Holmes' ability to link together details that the escape an orthodox mortal's mind, and in this instance, there was no difference. Lestrade was upon us in an instant, halting the cart not an hair's breath away from us.

"Where now, Mr. Holmes?"

"Burly Drive, Inspector! Quickly!" with that, the cart was off in a flash, "Are you aware of what, or who, the Nine Unknown are, Watson?"

"Not in the least, Holmes," I replied dryly, "I assume that's why they're unknown." A laugh escaped Holmes.

"Indeed, my friend! They are charged with protecting and creating knowledge that, in the wrong hands, could end the world as we know it."

"What kind of knowledge, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, that would be the secret. But worry not! I doubt we are dealing with that particular clandestine society." It was after the superior smirk seceded from my friend's face that Burly Drive did appear. Only one house resided there, a rather conspicuous place with its dark parapets and gothic edges.

"You're sure it's this place, Mr. Holmes?"

"Indeed. Why, do you doubt me inspector?"

"Well, this is the residence of Lord Ackley."

"Are you quite certain?" I cried.

"Aye, I was here only the other day!" Holmes' eyes were trained on the dwelling, as if scrutinizing the very stones and mortar.

"Do you have your pistol, Watson?"

"Of course, Holmes." I removed the aforementioned item from my pocket to be assured of the fact that I had, indeed, reloaded my revolver before arriving at the park.

"Then let us advance!" We three approached the front door, which, indeed, surprised me. Holmes was more of a back-door man when it came to dangerous encounters.

"What's our plan?" I asked.

"Corner and confront, my dear Watson. Not the safest plan, I see your reluctance, but he will break easily."

"How could you know that?"

"All will be revealed." a moment later, the door was opened by one of Lord Ackley's valets. Holmes just brushed past the boy, whose face was a mask of shock at the detective's audacity. "Come along!" Lestrade and I stepped in, handing our hats and coats to the servant, whose mouth was still slack. Holmes had bounded half way up the stairs before the attendant regained himself, and ran into the hall.

"Now, hold on a minute, sir! You can't go up there!"

"This will only take a moment!"

"Sir!"

"Jason, what are you doing down there?" came Ackley's voice from above Holmes' head.

"I tried to stop them, my lord!" Jason ascended the steps after Holmes.

"Stop whom, boy?"

"That would be us!"

"Mr. Holmes? To what do I owe this pleasure at so late an hour?" there was censure in the lord's voice.

"Yes, I do realize it's late," said he, moving into the study at the top of the stairs. The manservant almost collapsed at the haughtiness that was exhibited by my friend, "but I do believe the case of your deceased daughter can be disentangled in but a few moments." there must have been something significant on Holmes' face, for a second later, Lord Ackley's face became ashen.

"Of-of course, let's have a drink. Evening, Lestrade."

"Morning, I believe." The lord nodded, and shut his study door.

"What have you found out."

"That you had your own daughter killed." Holmes' voice was stoic.

"I did no such thing! You can't prove any of it!" Holmes wasn't listening, but began to circle Lord Ackley.

"You almost had me believing you had hired someone as a middle man in this business, but why would a middle man, who is hired to conceal the identity of the employer, come back to the administrator's house? It would be a very foolish move." Ackley moved to speak, but Holmes pressed on, "This is further established by the makeup that you couldn't quite get off your neck and your damp collar. You were just at Allestree park, threatening the assassins that you'd hired to retrieve something from your daughter." Ackley's back was to us. "I assume you tried to get it back by civil means, but were turned away. Why is that?"

"I suppose I could tell you," he practically growled, and spun around, "for you're going to die." For the second time in two days, a villain leveled a gun on the man whom I considered my best friend, and for the second time, my hand flashed to my gun. Holmes' hand joined mine, communicating silently that I shouldn't draw my weapon, not yet. "Mary had found out what had happened to her mother, and had a letter written, along with a box of effects to prove my guilt."

"Elizabeth died of tuberculosis!" exclaimed Lestrade, who looked near tears at the betrayal of his friend.

"Ney, you incompetent inspector, I poisoned her!" a strangled cry escaped Lestrade, perhaps at the thought of standing by a man that killed his own wife. "When Mary threatened to call you, you fool," he snarled, "she had to die, just as you do!" Ackley was going to pull the trigger, I could see it in his eyes, and I couldn't let my friends die. I shouldered Holmes out of the way as the guns fired in consonance, and we fell the same way. I felt the bullet rip into my bad shoulder, I saw a bullet pass though Ackley's head, and I heard Holmes' shout of fear and anger. And then there was nothing.

...

The first time my shoulder was wounded, I could catch bits and pieces of what went on , but this time, I was pushed so far down into a painless slumber. When I finally struggled to consciousness, I saw Holmes, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson sleeping in chairs by my bed. I shifted my shoulder to judge the damage, and was surprised to find that the pain was minimal. As usual, Holmes perceived the small change, and jolted awake.

"Watson? You're awake!" His cry roused the others, after which I was smothered by joy. Later that night, after Lestrade had thanked myself and Holmes, and Mrs. Hudson had fluffed my pillow for the twelfth time before leaving, Holmes was still by my side.

"Shouldn't you go back to Baker Street and rest, Holmes?" He shook his head 'no'.

"You're my brother, John, not in blood, but in bond," in his eyes, I could see more emotion than had ever been there before, "Thank you for your friendship,"

"No, Sherlock," my voice was choked with awe, "brothers need no thanks."

The end.

A/n notice Holmes switches the wording of The nine Unknown from what Ackley said in the park.

The families that were threatened were never in danger, but the assassins knew of the none unknown, and thought they were.

I feel, since Ackley killed his wife, he'd want some sort of attention beyond the norm for his daughter's death. He just didnt expect holmes to be that good. poor fool!

I FINISHED SOMETHING! 0o the world has ended


End file.
